“No,” it says.
Petra rolls her eyes.
“What made you maybe slightly somewhat change your mind?” Writing. Passing. Unfolding. Reading. Furtive glances at Mrs. Shriver who is talking about Britain outlawing slavery in 1833. Writing. Passing. Unfolding. Reading.
“Magic.”
* * *
At lunch when he comes over and sits down with us, Petra is assembling a sandwich she’s brought in pieces—English muffin, strawberry jelly, potato chips—by using one of the sturdier chips to spread the jam.
“According to my calculations,” he says, lisping a little around the cut in his lip, “that potato chip is approximately eleven and a half calories.”
“It’s not a potato chip.” Petra doesn’t even look at him. “It’s a jam spreader.”
“Like a knife?”
“Exactly.”
“Why don’t you make lunch at home where you have an actual knife?”
“If I put the chips on at home, they’d be soggy by lunch.”
“I thought you were just using them to spread the jam.”
“Not just,” says Petra. “After I use them as knives, I put them in the sandwich.”
“Why?”
“They’re crunchy”—she shrugs her braid over her shoulder—“unless you’re dumb enough to assemble your sandwich at home.”
He considers this logic.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I do not ask, “What’s happening to your face?” because it seems rude and like something better left unspoken. As if it’s not noticeable. As if not noticing would be a kindness. Kindness is not my goal anyway, but something has shifted here maybe, and I want to get him to tell me what it is.
“I’m fine.” He tongues the raw inside of his cheek and keeps his eyes on Petra’s sandwich.
He doesn’t look fine, but I was just being polite anyway. If he doesn’t want to tell me, there are more pressing things to discuss. “So. Magic?”
“Well, misdirection anyway.” He smiles, winces, embarrassed or maybe it hurts his face to move it that much. “More like old-fashioned spy tactics I guess.”
We wait.
“Cell reception sucks in this town,” he says.
“We’re aware,” says Petra.
“We had to put in an actual landline.” He looks appalled. “But then I realized the most amazing thing: if you pick up the phone upstairs, you can hear what’s being said on the phone downstairs, and no one else on the phone call can tell you’re listening because it’s not really a shared call. No one invited you to join. No split screen. Nothing. It’s like a technological marvel.”
“We’re known for that here,” Petra says.
“The phone rings a million times a night, and it’s always my grandfather, and he’s always yelling, and my dad is always agreeing and apologizing and ass-kissing. So last night, I went upstairs and picked up the other phone and listened.”
“And?” I try not to sound too eager or expect too much. “What did they say?”
He blanches. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Tell us!” Petra and I demand at once.
“I can’t. It’s not nice.”
“They’re not hiding in the school cafeteria.” Petra peeks theatrically under the table. “You’re spying on them. They’re not spying on you. They’ll never know.”
“Not not nice to them,” River says. “Not nice to you.”
“We can take it,” I assure him because maybe this is it. I’ve watched my mother fight this battle a long time. I’m not naive enough to think that mean things River overheard his father say would make a difference. But maybe he overheard something that would, something we could tell Mama, and Mama could tell Russell, that would finally move the lawsuit in front of a judge who would at last be presented with evidence that could not be ignored or denied.
“I came in in the middle of the call so I missed the beginning,” River hedges. “Plus, it was the third call of the night.”
“That’s okay,” I say too fast. He seems nervous and reticent, and I don’t want to scare him by being too intense and desperate, hungry. But I also don’t want to seem so nonchalant he decides not to tell me.
“My grandfather said my dad has to get started before anyone in town realizes.”
“Get started on what?” I say. “Realizes what?”
“I don’t know.” He won’t look at me. “And he said my dad shouldn’t be worrying about buying beers and kissing babies. He should be worrying you’ll find it.”
My breath catches. So there is an it! Something to find, something they don’t want us to find. “Find what?” I manage.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs with just his right shoulder, arms down by his sides. “And he said…” He trails off.
“What?”
“My dad said he felt bad about, you know, you.” He blushes slowly. “But my grandfather said you’re your own fault.”
“We’re our own fault?” I feel like Monday. I understand each of the words, but together they make no sense.
“He said probably you drink nothing but cheap beer and two-liter sodas and eat nothing but white bread and chips, and probably you’ve never even seen the inside of a gym.” His face is getting redder, hotter, like he’s dawning. “And my dad said that’s not your fault because your grocery store doesn’t really carry much produce, never mind an organics section, and the only yoga studio’s in the church. And my grandfather said if you treat your bodies like that, what do you expect.”
I think of Mrs. Shriver, but her inversion of cause and effect is on purpose. I mean Duke Templeton’s probably is too but not so we’ll grow as learners.
“And my dad was worried you’d figure it out,” River says miserably.
“Figure what out?”
“I don’t know, but my grandfather said you wouldn’t because you’re…” He trails off again.
“What?” I know I have to keep him talking, and I also know I don’t want to know what he’s about to tell me.
He says it so low I almost don’t hear. “Inbred.”
“Inbred?”
“So my dad shouldn’t worry you’ll outsmart him.”
“What the f—”
“And that he shouldn’t feel bad anyway because really you guys screwed us.” He looks up and meets my eyes for the first time. Clears his throat. “Belsum invested all this money, and you guys sabotaged us and then lied and faked disabilities to scam us out of more cash.”
“He thinks all that?” It’s absurd, but it’s so absurd it’s hard to take seriously enough to get your feelings hurt.
“I don’t know,” River says again. “Maybe not.” His expression has crossed over from embarrassed to more like ashamed, which is something I guess. “Maybe he was just talking trash. Psyching my dad up. Shooting down his objections. Trying to get him to do what he wants him to do.”
Petra and I are speechless. If she weren’t, she would say “aphonic.”